End Game
by ParaCaerOuVoar
Summary: **PREVIOUSLY WATCHING A HERO, WAITING FOR A SAVIOUR** Everything that has a winner, must have a loser. Everything that has a villain, must have a saviour. Everything that has a beginning, must have an end//DEAN, AU, NO PAIRINGS
1. Chapter 1

Yup. Me starting ANOTHER fic. But my muse is stubborn, so this is the first of two new fics up hopefully over this week.

Also, anyone who can guess why May 8th is significant, wins virtual cookies and some sort of prize.

I own nothing. Not even Anfiel. She belongs to the awesome night-star-93, and is currently featuring in Fighting for Salvation, Fighting for Redemption. Go, read!

--

_May 8__th__, 1944_

_It is time._

_The final confrontation must be now._

_The one that could spell the end of the end, or the start of a new one._

_They circle each other, each watching the other, unwilling to make the first move. _

_They know what is at stake here, and neither will risk it._

_I only hope he is strong enough._

_--_

Rain spatters to the ground gently, creating a thin layer of mud that sticks to everything. Hair is flattened to their scalps and foreheads, and in the case of the damned, his eyes. If not for the solemnity of the situation, I might have been tempted to smile. But even from a distance as great as this, I can see hatred in the eyes of one, and hurt and betrayal in the other. Behind me, I hear steps approach. These steps bring with them death and rage, fire and disaster. I turn to face my fallen brother. His short blonde hair is darkened with rain and dirt, but his eyes shine like purest onyx. In a time like this, no one cares about the colour of your eyes. His crisp English accent floats above the sounds of battle, calling out to me.

'Castiel.'

I turn to face him, my violet eyes regarding his youthful visage, unmarked by the harshness of war. My own face bears a thin scar running from my left temple to my scalp, disappearing into my dark hair, which is sticking to my temples and curling wetly at the nape of my neck. A true testament to how much I have given to this war. He barely gives it a passing thought. I gave it my _Grace, _or near enough. I retained enough of my heaven given abilities, but poured my heart and soul into ensuring victory, into purging the world of evil, allowing humanity to thrive. And it still wasn't enough.

As I watch, my charge falls at the hand of someone he thought of as a friend, no, someone he considered a brother. Family was hard to find in times like these and in war, the bonds you form are not easily broken. Except in this case. As I had many times before, I watched the one born to save the world die, on his own, on a battlefield. I had hoped he was strong enough.

I was wrong.

'Enough.' The word springs from my mouth unbidden. They say angels have no emotions, no method of feeling anything, but I know they are wrong. Because now I cry. I cry for the fallen soldier, born for one purpose, dying at the hand of someone he trusted more than himself. I cry for humanity, their hero defeated again. I even cry for my brother, the fallen angel who cannot see past his own suffering.

'Enough.' I repeat, my voice stronger. 'No more death.'

He laughs, his handsome face contorting. 'I'm afraid that's impossible, brother.' He spits the word out, loathe to remember life in the heavens, loathe to remind himself that we are brothers by blood as well as bond. Behind me, the blood washes away in the rain as we discard our bodies, returning to our true forms.

_It's almost ironic_, I think to myself as I watch his wings unfold, that falling from grace gave him wings of spun gold, while my faith leaves me with coal black feathers. His hair shines as it tumbles down his back, as black as my wings, and his eyes match his wings, glowing as if lit up from the inside, although I know his heart is black as night. 'And now I'm afraid I must bid you farewell, Castiel,' he says, sweeping a bow. He always did have a flair for the dramatic, in speech as well as actions.

'It will begin again,' I warn him. 'It can never end. They must return and fight.'

'They always do,' he adds, sinking back into the pit slowly. 'Until then, brother...'

_Until then..._

_May 24__th__, 1978_

_It is time…_

I watch the house, knowing this must be the right place. Why else would I be called here? He is to be born again. I close my eyes and cup the soul in my hands, before willing him into his new life. It is done. In nine months time, he will be introduced into the world again, a helpless infant with so much power. Born to save the world. Such a huge burden for one person. But it must be him.

Why here? This family has already been touched by evil so many times. A demon has touched their lives, infecting them with his sulphurous touch. I can almost hear the seconds ticking away for Mary and her unborn son. I close my eyes in a momentary honouring of the woman so willing to save the man she loves she would give literally anything for him to live. I leave, floating away on the wind. I will return in nine months to watch over the baby, to keep evil safe from him.

_January 24__th__, 1979_

At exactly three seventeen am, Dean Winchester is brought into the world. He doesn't cry as he looks around the room, blinking enormous blue eyes at his parents. I lay a hand on his head as he lies in his crib, and he looks up at me. He is so innocent, so pure. When I think what he will have to become…

I cannot.

With a final blessing, I am gone again, but watching from a distance. He will never again be alone in the world.

Over the next four years, I watch him grow from a helpless baby to an inquisitive toddler. His eyes darken to jade and his hair grows blonde and fluffy. I am there when he takes his first steps, says his first word. I am there when Mary teaches him to read, John to throw a football. I am there when his world collapses down around him.

Six months previously, Mary had given birth to another baby, Samuel. I watched Dean handle him with kid gloves. He loves his baby brother so much already. I watch him carrying baby Sammy out of the house on his father's command, as Mary dies in his nursery. I watch the innocence in his eyes disappear, never to return.

After the fire, John takes the boys to his colleague's house and leaves them, going to a bar. He sits there and drowns in his sorrows, ordering beer after beer, night after night. I can feel the pain radiating from him, the hurt, the loss, the anger. The blood of hunters may run through Mary's veins, but John was born to hunt. I see it in his eyes, hear it in his soul. A week passes, and I can stand it no longer. I call the one angel I trust more than anyone else to watch over Dean as he sleeps, Sam in his arms, and travel as light to the bar where John sits, so ready to give up, his sons the one thing tying him to this life. My current vessel enters the bar and orders a water as I flood into him. He has prayed for this, and God has listened.

'Rough night?' I ask, turning to face John Winchester. He takes another gulp of his beer before answering.

'The worst.'

I sip at my water as my heart aches for him. 'Want to talk about it?'

'You wouldn't believe me.'

'I believe a lot of things.'

'Do you believe in heaven?'

'Maybe,' I answer carefully. 'If you define heaven as the abode of God, somewhere for pure souls to go when they pass on.'

He ignore me, continuing his questions. 'Then you must believe in angels?'

'I suppose so. But they aren't the halo wearing, harp playing type.'

He looks at me, and I continue. 'In the bible, angels are depicted as warriors, soldiers of God.' Certainly true for the angel that watches over Dean, my closest confidante, Anfiel. Her violet wings may give the appearance of innocence, but neither angel not demon will cross her when she is angry and armed.

If you believe in heaven, and angels, then you must believe in demons, and in hell as well,' he said, draining the last of his beer.

'You cannot have good without evil,' I agree. 'You have encountered a demon.'

He nods, before getting up and leaving, walking steadily, if slowly, towards the wooden door. I follow him, ignoring the shouts of the bartender that I have not paid for my drink. 'Just put it on my tab, Mark,' a rough voice growls from a corner, and a grizzled old man emerges, with an empty glass, dumping it on the counter. 'Night, all,' he adds, before placing his ball cap on his head and heading for the exit. He stumps past us with a nod, before climbing into his pickup truck and driving off in the dark. John makes to do the same, but I put a hand on his arm.

'You have encountered a demon,' I repeat, looking into his eyes.

It is then he breaks down, tears leaking from his eyes, and I resist drawing him into my arms and embracing him. Times are different now; we are virtual strangers in his eyes. 'It killed my wife.'

I am unsure what to say, so I say nothing.

'What do your soldiers of God say about that?' he spat in anger, wrenching his arm away.

'They say everything happens for a reason. But that reason is not always a good one. You have to stay strong John. Strong for your sons. And especially for Dean. Dean is,' I paused, unsure how to phrase it, while talking about a four year old boy. 'Special.'

It was then I told him of his son's destiny. To his credit, he listened all the way through, not interrupting once. When I had finished, he looked at me curiously, evidently deciding whether I was to be believed. 'What are you?' he asked, showing how much he had grown in the last week alone.

Castiel,' I answered simply, before walking away, bleeding into the shadows, returning to my original form. I can only hope, and have faith in John Winchester's ability to raise his son.

--

_I will watch you fight the sky, you make them run and hide, you wait for it to die now, I will watch you fight the sky, you make them run and hide, I'll watch you fight the sky now..._

--

Well, something a little different from me. Hope you like.

Quick pimping for the following authors.

**Night-star-93-**

**Wanted Dead Or Alive**

**Fighting For Salvation, Fighting For Redemption**

**Lover-Fighter-Writer-**

**Alone, Patient and Supernatural**

**ElzBelz01-**

**Ambriel**

**Bee Winchester David-**

**There'll Be Peace When You Are Done**


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks to my reviewers night-star-93, Laura xx, ElzBelz01, Bee Winchester David, Lara-Van and Touch of the Wind

A quick note. Daen is how it's supposed to be spelt. It's not a typo. You'll see.

Another quick note. I'm kinda mixing things up here. I'm NOT an expert on caveman times, so what I don't know, and can't find on google I'm making up.

Yet another quick note. In this, it's reading like a modern day translation of their speech. I know they wouldn't really talk like this. This also holds true for later on, when they're in different countries, and speaking English, even if they would be speaking Latin or whatever. Just so's ya know.

I own nothing but the idea.

--

**A cave painting. That's all that remains of the most epic battle of Neanderthal times. Crushed berries and earth daubed on a wall, depicting two clumsily drawn figures, one safeguarded by heaven, one surrounded by the fiery corruption of hell. Shadows reign behind them, good and evil personified clashing together as they fought. But only those who were there could truly explain the ferocity of this war.**

**--**

_Daen, son of Jho, was a nobody. Just a hunter, bringing home food to his tribe. But he was damn good at it. He went out, and he always brought food home, regardless of what it cost him. His face was ravaged by the savageries of the animals he encountered, a silvery scar running from his temple down his face and neck to end as his collarbone, and he walked with a slight limp. His muscles rippled from exertion and excessive use, and at six foot, he towered over everyone else in the tribe, apart from his father. Jho, son of Amk, was a beast of a man. Six foot two and nearly as wide in the shoulders, the tribe leader was well known in surrounding tribes as Bear. No crossed him, he had been tribal leader for over thirty years, unchallenged by even newcomers to the land. Not that people cared, with his wife Mya, he was a fair ruler, assisted by Byo, the shaman of the tribe. For thirty one years there was peace, until He arrived._

The spear thrust into the boar's neck as it spasmed, the death ripple shaking throughout Daen's whole body as he held it to the ground, dark blood seeping into the dry earth. He strained, using every reserve of strength, while Cri held the back legs, restraining it from kicking out, possibly harming one or both in its death throes. Finally, the squeals stopped, and the boar was still. They climbed up, wiping the sweat from their brows. 'Son of a bitch,' Daen panted, as Cri nodded in agreement.

'Let's get him back to camp. Front or back?'

'Front. I don't trust you to aim this thing.' Daen snarked.

Cri mock glared at him, before heaving the back end of the gargantuan boar onto his broad shoulders, Daen following suit, and they began their long trek home.

The sun was high in the sky, beating down upon them as they walked, pausing infrequently to sip from a water bag made of boar skin, filled with pure sweet water from the river flowing by their camp. Daen's grass green eyes suddenly focused in on a shape in the distance, huddled to the ground lifelessly. 'Hey,' you see that?' he asked, jolting Cri out of his half daydream.

'See what?' he grumbled.

'That.' Daen gestured clumsily with one hand, struggling to balance the boar on his broad shoulders.

'Oh. Yeah. What the hell is it?'

'Beats me,' Daen replied, fighting the urge to shrug, unseating the boar, and lowered it down gently, Cri following suit. 'But I'm gonna find out.' Leaving Cri behind with the carcass, he set off in his loping run, designed for maximum speed, without being hindered by his lame knee. After a couple of running, the lump became clearer, and Daen could see a body. If it was a dead animal, he might as well lug it back to camp. It would feed them all for a week, maybe more, judging by the size. He jogged to a halt beside it, finally seeing it for what it was.

A man's body lay on the ground, crumpled and bloody, his chest rising and falling deeply and regularly. So not a dead animal. He approached him slowly, crouching down on one knee to shake his shoulder gently. 'Hey, you OK, man?'

Nothing. He tried again, a little rougher. Long brown hair curled around his face, obscuring his features slightly. Daen brushed it out of his face. Hazel eyes snapped open.

--

Dean blinked, watching headlights flash past him. 'Whoa...' he said simply.

'What?' he looked over at his brother, driving the Impala on one of those rare times Dean needed to sleep, but they needed to get there in a hurry.

'Nothin',' Dean replied sleepily, still trying to make sense of his dream. It must have been a dream. What else could it have been? 'Weird dreams. Where are we?'

'Just outside of South Dakota. Couple hours till we get to Bobby's.'

Dean didn't reply, flipping open the glove compartment and sifting through old burn phones and cassette tapes, pausing to slip Pink Floyd into the machine, causing Sam to groan in protest. 'What happens to driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole?' he whined.

'Things change,' Dean replied offhandedly, still searching. He came across a black leather notebook, one he sometimes used when he was posing as a Fed, and a biro, the lid chewed to hell and back. He flicked the useless lid into the back seat and began to draw the images from his dream. The boar, spear protruding from its neck. Himself, the scar the only prominent feature on another otherwise shaded face. And an eye, drawn in black biro but instinctively hazel. He didn't know how he knew that, he just did. Same as how he knew he couldn't draw, and yet these pictures flowed out of his arm, through the pen and onto the paper, as lifelike as in his dream.

He flipped the page idly and continued drawing, the style changing. It began more jagged and clumsy, like drawing with a stick of charcoal. Two stick figures emerged from the page, one surrounded by smoke and fire, the other protected by an invisible bubble, untouched by the destruction. In the background a battle raged, an epic war between heaven and hell from the looks of it.

Finished with his doodles, Dean dropped the pen and surveyed his work.

'Dude,' he said to Sam. 'I need to lay off the bacon cheeseburgers at night.' He considered this. 'Or at least the cheese part.'

Sam sniggered. 'And pigs will fly.'

'Bitch.'

'Jerk.'

--

As I watched the brother's bicker, I replayed the last eleven minutes. Dean's dream couldn't have happened, and yet it had. The drawings themselves were proof of that.

This could only mean one thing.

He remembered…

--

_I'm dreaming out loud, dreaming out loud, and all at once it's so familiar to see, I'm dreaming out loud, dreaming out loud, can't find a puzzle to fit into a piece of a part of me_

--

OK, I think most of you have figured it out by now. Here's the translations for the names, in case you didn't get them:

Daen: Dean

Ska: Sam

Jho: John

Mya: Mary

Byo: Bobby

Cri: Chris

OK, usual deal, guess the song, win a prize.

PIMPING TIME!

Night-star-93- honestly one of the best writers I've ever come across, even if she IS pure evil.

Laura xx- the only person who's managed to reduce me to tears and then have me laughing hysterically the next line

Bee Winchester David- All I can say is WOW. I'm literally having withdrawals because she hasn't updated in a couple days. I want more Rose!

ElzBelz01- Another fantastic author, who keeps me wanting more, rewriting the angel stor line with such a fantastic twist, I get a little upset when I realise Ambriel isn't in the show.

I'll try and update soon!


	3. Chapter 3

OK, news!

When this story is complete, it's being repackaged as an actual novel you can buy from the shops! I'm like wooooooooooo –dances-

Once again, I own nothing, except the idea.

--

Dean lay in the motel room, watching the trees wave in the gentle breeze out of the window. In the bed across from him Sam snored gently, lying on his back in the middle of the bed, one arm curled against his chest, the other flung away from him, hanging off the edge of the bed, like his feet. Even since he'd hit eighteen or nineteen, Dean's kid brother had outgrown pretty much every motel room bed in the lower forty eight. And not to mention the tubs. Sam hadn't had a bath in seven years, having to crouch in the tiny shower instead that he dwarfed regardless.

Dean huffed in irritation and sat up, pushing the covers so they pooled in his lap instead of sticking to his chest. He couldn't sleep, and he knew why. Those damn dreams had freaked him out more than dreams should. He knew if he slept, the dreams would come back. And although a part of him longed to find out who the owner of the curly brown hair and hazel eyes where, a bigger part of him told him the dreams were bad, and he should stay away.

Sighing, he clambered out of bed and pulled a pair of jeans, a three inch hole in one of the knees, on and opened the motel door quietly, venturing into the cool autumn air. It blew against his bare chest, and he scratched idly at the skin underneath his amulet, where the cord knot rested at the base of his neck, where it had been since December 1992, when he'd ripped open the newspaper wrapping and found it nestling in his hand. It had been, and still was, the best Christmas present he'd ever received.

'Dean.'

He spun round at the sound of his name, hand automatically going to the waistband of his jeans and finding nothing. He cursed internally, he'd forgotten to snag his handgun. He looked up into the face of his possible attacker, tensing when he saw it was Gabriel, or The Tricksters as he was now known. Putting on a grin, he feigned cockiness until he knew why the angel was here. 'Gabe! Enjoy your shower?'

Gabriel's face darkened momentarily and he took a step towards the smaller man. 'This isn't a time for your 'witty jokes',' he growled, dropping the quote marks neatly into the sentence. 'Castiel tells me you've been having dreams?' he continued, his tone lighter suddenly.

Dean frowned, instantly defensive. 'And if I have? What do you winged douches care? Where is Cas, anyway?'

'My brother is... elsewhere. He's still not given up on this pointless quest of his.' Gabriel replied, perturbed.

'Oh, right, right, finding God.' A thought occurred to Dean. 'Hey, you're an archangel. Not just a regular angel.'

'Ding ding ding!' Gabriel snarked. 'Give the man a prize! What tipped you off? Was it the name? I bet it was the name. Gabriel, such a giveaway, I should have known-'

Dean interrupted his rant, scowling. 'When you're done with your open mic session, can I talk?'

Gabriel gestured with his hands. 'By all means.'

'Archangels become archangels when they see God, right?' A curt nod from Gabriel prompted him to continue. 'Then you know what God looks like.' Another nod. 'Then, why aren't you helping him?'

Something dimmed in Gabriel's eyes as he looked at his feet. 'I looked. For centuries, god...' he paused. 'god knows I looked for him. He's not here, Winchester. If he was, I would have found him.' The cloud passed over his handsome features and he looked up again, the Trickster glint back in his eyes. 'But we're not here to talk about that.'

Dean threw himself back on track. 'Yeah. I assume there _is_ a reason you're here at,' He checked his watch 'three seventeen in the morning?'

'Uh-huh. The dreams you've been having.'

Dean threw his hands up in frustration. 'OK, seriously! How does Cas know about them? And more to the point, how do _you _know about them? Is there some sort of celestial Skype or something going on up there?' He jerked his thumb upwards, towards the sky.

Gabriel sniggered. 'Someth'n' like that. But the point is, we know.' His face became solemn, all traces of the perennial joker faded from his face. 'The fact that you're even having these dreams is a bad sign. A very bad sign.'

'Ok, first of all, it's not dreams. Just dream. Singular. And why are my dreams so important? I mean, I know I'm supposed to be the saviour and Michael's sword and shit like that, but seriously? I have one dream and heaven has its religious panties in a bunch. I mean, that's nine kinds of crazy, man.'

'It might seem crazy to you, but these dreams are a-'

'A bad sign, yeah, you told me. But why? And what's it a bad sign _of?'_

'The apocalypse.'

Dean groaned. 'Haven't we been through this? Look around you! Too little, too late, pal. The apocalypse is happening!'

'Oh please. This isn't an apocalypse. This is the appetizer to the big ole end of the world main fucking course!'

Dean scowled again. 'So, what now? And will you _please _tell me why you keep coming back to my freakin' dream?!'

'You dreamt of a time you were not supposed to remember. Not yet.' Dean turned at the deep voice to see the young angel standing in the wood, emerging looking slightly dishevelled, as always.

'How can I remember something I never lived?' he asked.

'Because it wasn't you living it.' Gabriel chipped in, and Dean glanced back at him. He really wasn't comfortable with the archangel standing behind him. The confusion must have been clear on Dean's face, because Gabriel sighed and continued. 'Not in this meat suit, anyway.'

'So, what, a past life?'

Gabriel laughed. 'You're smarter than I gave you credit for. Not one past life. Endless past lives.'

'And future lives.' Cas added, moving round to stand next to Gabriel. 'An uncountable number of lives, constantly being reborn, an endless cycle of bodies until either you end, or he does.'

'I swear to God,' Dean started, noting the slight flinch both angels gave at the blasphemy. 'I will end _both_ of you if you don't stop talking in damn riddles!'

Castiel merely cocked his head, unfamiliar with the term but gathering the meaning from the tone of voice. Gabriel's grin only got wider, before dropping it and explaining. 'You are one of two immortal souls. It wasn't by chance that you're Michael's sword. You were born to save the world, you are always reborn to save the world. Though, why fate picked you,' Gabriel snorted. 'is anyone's guess.'

'Eat me,' Dean snapped.

'No thanks, I try not to eat other angel's meatsuits.' Gabriel smirked.

Dean laughed, but there was no humour in it. 'You bastard.'

'Hello? Angel?' Gabriel replied, pointing at himself.

Cas' gaze hardened at that, Dean noticed, but he just glared at Gabriel. 'No wonder you got kicked out of heaven. I bet the other angels were just rolling out the kegs and party poppers.'

'I wasn't kicked out, I chose to leave!' Gabriel snarled through gritted teeth.

'Yeah, that's what you _tell _people, but I bet they could wait to see the back of you.' Dean smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

'You have no idea why I left, you stupid, stupid son of a bitch!' Gabriel bellowed.

Dean snapped. Dodging Cas' interference attempt. He grabbed Gabriel by his collar and slammed him against a tree, lifting him half a foot off the ground. 'Don't you _ever _talk about my mother again! Ever!'

'Ooh, that's a sore spot.' Gabriel chuckled. 'Kinda like when you mention my father, it hurts, doesn't it?'

Dean,' Cas said quietly, from behind him.

'Well, looks like we're all learning new things today. You want some proof you're not one hundred percent pure, home-grown human?' Gabriel asked, his tone back to the jokey timbre of The Trickster.

'Go nuts.' Dean snarled, his rage going nowhere.

'Take a good long look at yourself. This body weighs about two hundred pounds, give or take about ten pounds. And you're lifting me six inches off the floor. With one hand. Ain't no real human can do that. Not unless you got some God given help.'

Dean loosened his grip on Gabriel, who fell to the floor, landing nimbly on his feet, like a cat. 'What am I?' Dean asked.

'Salvation.' Cas answered, moving to grip Dean on the shoulder, the same shoulder he had branded his handprint on eighteen months ago. 'You're our salvation.'

--

_Best, you've got to be the best, you've got to change the world, and you use this chance to be heard, your time is now. Change, everything you are, and everything you were, your number has been called, fights and battles have begun, revenge will surely come, your hard times are ahead._

--

Update coming soon! Guess the song?


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